Thursday, April 3, 2014

An Anniversary To Be Remembered ... If Nothing Else

The night mercifully ended with me sleeping on the couch in
the living room -- and not because I bought her a pair of lamps as a gift
either. Though, I’ve figured out since that may have been couch worthy on its
own.

No, I wasn’t on the couch because I was in trouble. In fact,
she was sleeping in the living room too, on the next couch over.

How did we end up uncomfortably asleep on separate couches on
our 13th wedding anniversary?It actually involves something of a mystery. And who doesn't love a good mystery.

Still, this is a story I’m reluctant to
tell. Just thinking about it makes me want to vomit in my mouth, and then take
a week-long shower. It’s just gross.

Sure, I’ve written about gross stuff before: Most notably
here. But this one takes the cake … or more aptly, the pile, or
something. Here comes that familiar gag reflex.

Anyway, it began with what was by all accounts the most
unmemorable of anniversaries. And that’s not my description.As we sat near each other in the same living
room earlier in the evening, watching some lame television shows after the kids
had gone to bed, my wife said, “This is the most unmemorable anniversary we’ve
ever had.”

In hindsight, we both wish it had stayed that way.

We did not set out to have an unmemorable anniversary. We’d
hoped to at least go out to dinner during the weekend days
leading up to the annual celebration of our vows. But the sitter fell through
one night, and logistical restraints impacted the other. (That means we were
stuck driving kids to parties and dance recitals, and other child-centric
crap).

And I didn’t set out to get her a couple of crappy lamps as
a gift either. The 13th is
supposed to be the Lace Anniversary, after all, not the Lamp Anniversary. But I
couldn’t find anything lace she’d like. (Any more would be too much sharing). So
I got some lamps she didn’t like instead.

I like to think our level of lameness is typical for people with four kids under the age of 12.

When is the Hazmat Suit Anniversary?

As we sat there that evening, watching television, thinking
about the poor job we’d done celebrating this anniversary of ours, we heard the
familiar sound of footsteps upstairs. From the lightness and frequency of the
steps, we both knew it was our 3-year-old boy. And it sounded like he was on the move from
his bedroom to ours, just down the hall.

This was an almost nightly occurrence.

From the living room, we could hear him enter our bedroom
then scoot across the floor to the sweater chest. There, he likely sprang up
onto our bed, crawled across the comforter, and under the blankets, making
himself at home right smack-dab in the middle of our bed.

A few moments later, we heard a sound we didn’t expect. He let out
a ghastly cry. This was not the “Where are you guys” cry; He cried loud. Nor
was it his “I’m-hurt” cry. Still, something was amiss -- severely.

My wife went up the stairs to investigate, and let out an
audible gasp.

I’d rather not describe the scene she discovered. … But here
goes.

For starters, she found the boy covered in poo and in our
bed. And, as you might suspect, also covered in poo was our bed, and our sheets, and
my pillow.

She immediately took the boy back down the hall to the kid
bathroom to hose him off, asking him what happened, while he just cried and
cried. And that’s when what had happened became a mystery -- one that
begged to be solved. For, while the boy had poo all over his clothes and his
hands, there was none in his undies.

I’m no crime scene investigator, nor is my wife (though she
always says she should have been one), but it was clear to both of us that the
poo in question was not his.

As my wife cleaned him up, I began to strip the bed,
starting with the poo-covered comforter. The comforter appeared to be ground zero for whatever
had transpired.I knew this because a soft
pile of poo sat right smack in the middle of it, complete with knee prints and
skid marks (sorry) leading up to the pillows and onto the sheets.

I took the comforter and my pillowcase outside into the cold
night air to begin the initial cleansing process. I really wanted to just light a fire
and burn the damned thing.And maybe I should
have.But then, I’d likely be writing
about how I got arrested for violating a village ordinance against openly burning
feces, or some such. So, instead I just cleaned it up, gagging a few times for
good measure.

My wife, meanwhile, finished tidying up the boy, tucked him
back in his own bed, and turned her attention to our sheets. The whole while,
we both turned over in our heads what must have occurred. And we both came to
the same conclusion.

The dog.

It must’ve been.

The dog must’ve gotten “sick” – which is our family code word
for having uncontrollable poo – and been unable to get outside quick enough, or
even get off our bed, apparently. She’s a
good dog, and doesn’t do stuff like this usually. But she’s getting old, and I
know from reading Marley and Me that stuff like this is gonna happen. Tear drop.

Plus, it was the only logical answer. Unless you consider my
wife’s other theory. Like God would smite us for her saying how unmemorable our
anniversary celebration was.

I’m going with the dog.Though, piecing it all together, I figure it
happened at about the same time she made that proclamation.

Once the poo pile was on the bed, and the dog had moved on to a less smelly room, the boy must’ve awoken and gone on his nightly commute
across our comforter, only to find himself confronted with poo on the journey.And, as they say in the I'm Going on a Bear Hunt
book, he went right through it.

With the mystery solved, it meant only one thing: I had to
give the dog a bath.At least, that’s
what my wife decided.

So, well after midnight, on our 13th anniversary, after I’d already
spent half-an-hour outside cleaning a loose pile of poo off our comforter, I
was in the bathroom with our dog giving her a full-body scrub down.My wife, for her part, was in the basement in
full hazmat gear washing sheets, and putting the stain spray bottle to use on
the pillow case and comforter, attempting to eradicate the remnants of the poo
pile and poo prints.

Afterward, we both retired to the couches.

Now, I’m not a terribly superstitious person. I can’t afford
to be, as I was born on Friday the 13th way back in the day. But it’s safe to say our 13th
anniversary will not be remembered as the “Lace Anniversary.”No. Several other
titles come more readily to mind.

Yet, if nothing else, it will be remembered.

Like the article? Know others who may enjoy reading it? Please share it using the buttons below or to the left. Thank you.PS. This is the story I shared for the Clorox ickies twitter party, #ickies .

I have belly laughed 2x today. Both from ruddy fb posts, both about dog poo. I'd say thank u but that seems "mildly" inappropriate. Our dog got sprayed by a skunk last week, I still swear I smell skunk.. Good luck extricating all evidence of yr unfortunate event from yr home & nasal memory:)

Glad you enjoyed it, Annie. Your own story reminded me of the time our dog got sprayed years ago. It happened right before bedtime. We didn't know what to do, so my wife checked online. Next thing I know, I'm at the 24hour grocery store buying 5 bottles of douche. Talk about an awkward check out.

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About Me

I'm a writer, a husband and a father of four. I once worked in news in Washington, D.C., and served as a speechwriter for a spell. Now I work in upstate New York, teach and help raise our kids. This is where I write about it.